


In Which Derek Fails at Werewolf Super-Hearing

by fatalismandyourcrookedface



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, and the sheriff is my favorite always, derek is awkward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatalismandyourcrookedface/pseuds/fatalismandyourcrookedface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff really didn't see this coming. Nor did Danny. I'm not sure Finstock knows what sex is. Chris Argent is concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to homework, but then I fic'd instead.

Derek should have heard the footsteps on the stairs, hell – he should have heard the cruiser pull into the drive and the door shutting just after dawn. But all he could hear was Stiles’s steady breath, Stiles’s heart against his own chest, the little snuffling noises every time Stiles’s face nuzzled Derek’s throat. 

He should have felt the new heartbeat growing closer, but he was distracted by the body burrowing into his side, the arm thrown around his waist, the fingers loosely gripping his skin. The contact burned with the memory of finally claiming Stiles, finally marking him.

So it wasn’t until the door opened that Derek noticed the fact that they weren’t alone any longer. He instinctively tried to roll from the bed, but he was too tangled in sheets, in Stiles’ limbs, to do anything but jerk his mate awake. 

“D’rek?” Stiles mumbled, fighting a yawn. 

“Derek?” the sheriff echoed.

Stiles’ head swung toward the door, his hands flailing to find purchase on anything that specifically wasn’t naked skin. He took in his father’s face, the utter bewilderment quickly losing ground to a stony stare leveled at Derek. Stiles glanced back at Derek: blank-faced and pale. He knew his mouth was hanging open dumbly and snapped it shut before turning back to his father.

“Dressed and downstairs in two minutes. Both of you. Before I slap handcuffs on Mr. Hale and take him in for statutory rape.”

Stiles’s mouth floundered open again as he nodded, for once rendered mute. 

“Dude, you can’t freak out.” Stiles climbed across the bed as soon as his dad turned his back. He pulled at the broad, rough hands that had become glued to Derek’s face while he wasn’t looking. Stiles couldn’t help the way his ears reddened at the familiar warmth of Derek’s skin, of their fingers tangling together. “Derek, please, look at me.” He gave a firm tug, and the hands came down. Derek met Stiles’ bright, tawny eyes before being distracted by the marks he’d made down the pale column of Stiles’s neck. “Alright, alright, Mr. Wolfy. Now is not the time for that look.” 

“What look?” Derek mumbled absentmindedly. He couldn’t stop staring. He moved forward with eyes hooded; he wanted to nip at the bruises, make them dark, make Stiles flush-

“That look,” Stiles shoved at Derek, voice slightly more breathless than it had been a moment ago. “My dad is waiting for us downstairs, and we are so massively fucked. He’s going to arrest you, and I’m going to have to write you lovelorn letters and hold your hand through the glass, and it will all be really dramatic and heartbreaking especially until I turn eighteen and can pay you conjugal visits, and I’d really rather not have sex with you in some weird-ass trailer-”

Derek glared at him and pushed him off the bed. 

“Dude, ouch! Not cool. I didn’t say that I wouldn’t come have sex with you in a weird-ass trailer. Just that I’d rather not.” By the time Stiles looked up, Derek was already on his feet and pulling on his jeans. “Where are my-” His pants hit him in the face before he could finish. “Shirt?” It hit him like a projectile. 

 

“You’re four and a half minutes late,” the sheriff muttered when they finally made it downstairs.

“Sorry, Derek was freaking out.” Stiles started talking, filling the heavy silence, as soon as he slid into the chair opposite his dad. “This wasn’t Derek’s idea. By the way. I feel like it should be said that, in his defense, he wanted to wait. Well, ‘want’ is a strong word. He felt we should wait. He made up his mind and put his foot down and everything. If anything, I pressured him into it. And even then he made us start slow. Like, seriously, this was a culmination of a, like, twelve-step, two week-long, program of ‘introducing sex into Stiles’s life so he’s not overwhelmed by my massive-’”

“Stiles!” Derek slapped a hand over his mouth from the seat beside him. “Stop. Talking. Now.”

“Please, please, never say what you were about to say. Ever. In my presence. It really would damage my sanity.” The sheriff just looked tired, the anger from earlier dissipated. “Stiles, has Derek ever hurt you?” 

Stiles shook his head violently, and Derek’s hand fell away so he could speak. “No.” 

“No?” His dad stared pointedly at his neck, at the mottled yellow poking out from under the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes drifted to Stiles’s chest where he’d noticed similar marks – harsher than any hickeys he’d ever seen.

“Not…” Stiles looked at his hands and flushed. “Not in any way I didn’t want.”

There was an awkward moment of silence that not even Stiles could bring himself to interrupt. Finally, after watching Derek long enough to find the mortification and vague sense of panic under a stoicism that would put Zeno to shame, the sheriff huffed out a weary sigh. “Where is all of this going, boys? Because I can’t, for the life of me, imagine that Derek is here right now, looking, for all that he’s grown, like he did huddled in my office with his sister, if he didn’t-” he broke off for a moment to take a heavy breath, and noticed that Stiles had reflexively shifted closer to the man beside him, had immediately rested his hand on Derek’s forearm. “If I had thought Derek was using you for sex, he’d be on his way to prison already. As that clearly hasn’t happened, you get to walk me through exactly how you went from accusing Derek Hale of murder to me finding him in your bed.” 

Stiles hung his head, and the sheriff could vaguely see his mouth moving without actually producing any sound. Or at least, he couldn’t hear Stiles make any sound. Derek, however, nodded and fixed the sheriff with a resolute stare. 

“Sheriff, we-”

“I think,” the sheriff held up his hand with a slight wince, “given our new circumstances, Mr. Stillinski is more appropriate.”

“Mr. Stillinski,” Derek began again, not without a smile, “we have something to tell you about last year’s animal attacks.”

 

\----

 

“You don’t worry… that you’ll, you know, accidentally stab Stiles?” The Sheriff was glaring pensively at Derek’s fingers where, an hour earlier, he had seen sharp claws replace the blunt, human nails. 

“Dad, Derek has spent his whole life learning to control-”

“I could never hurt my mate,” Derek interrupted, “it would go against every instinct.” 

“I’m sorry,” the sheriff felt his assurance of his own sanity tremble precariously for the third time since coming home earlier that morning and kicking heavy work-boots from his son’s doorway, “your what?” He glanced at said son in the hope of finding some sympathy, but Stiles was trying, and failing miserably, to suppress the wild grin that had taken over his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more procrastination. At some point I should read the 300 pages I have left for Monday...

“He’s not back yet, I take it,” the sheriff called from the kitchen when he heard Stiles stomp down the stairs. It had been a week of Stiles beating-up furniture while Derek was a few hundred miles north, upholding his end of the tenuous peace his pack had established with Chris Argent. 

“Why did I ever tell him this was a good idea?” Stiles fixed his dad with a glare and threw himself into a chair, knocking his elbow into the corner of the table. “Motherfu-”

“Language.”

“-Fraggle Rock?” 

The sheriff huffed out a laugh. “Thank you for the ‘80s flashback. It’s nice to be reminded that there was once a simpler time.” Stiles rolled his eyes, but his dad poured himself another cup of coffee and continued: “A time when I would never have found Derek Hale in my kitchen, doing the most angry baking I have ever seen anyone do, chopping kale with more vitriol than the vegetable could possibly deserve, brewing tea, that time you were sick, with the most severe look of murderous concentration-”

“Dad, do we have to make me sadder? Really? Is it Fill Stiles with Pain Day?”

“Stop trying to put holes in the stairs, Stiles,” he said, his voice soft and a smile pulling at his lips. There was something so reassuring about the fact that he actually knew what was wrong. As terrifying as the werewolf situation was (not to mention the fact that his son was dating a man in his twenties), it was so much better than the millions of other options he had entertained to explain Stiles’s behavior over the past two years. 

“They had it coming. Do you know how many times that staircase has hit me in the face?” Stiles grabbed a piece of toast from his dad’s plate and bit into it viciously. 

He eyed Stiles’s too-big shirt; it was long-sleeved and grey and too drab to be something Stiles would have bought. “And next time you sit down, you don’t have to impale yourself on the chair just because you miss Derek.” 

Stiles choked on his toast, coughing violently, and it took a moment for the sheriff to realize that they had interpreted that statement in two very different ways. 

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” he put his face in his hands. 

“Let’s move on,” Stiles wheezed. 

“Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.” The sheriff took a few deep breaths, and when he raised his head, he looked vaguely like he was losing his grip on the morning. “Go make a real breakfast.” 

“The ‘eat right’ lectures are my job, dude. I’m liberating these carbs from your plate for your health.” 

“Right.” The sheriff didn’t mention that he hadn’t seen Stiles eat a real meal in two days, not since the last text. 

 

Stiles slogged his way through Econ, couldn’t summon the energy in English even to judge the people around him who were clearly quoting Spark Notes. Practice was exhausting now that he was actually on the field, and by the time he’d dragged himself into the locker room, everyone else was showered and dressed. 

“This fracking sucks,” he muttered, sitting as Scott jumped up and made to leave. “Dude, you could wait for me.” 

Scott just gave him what could probably pass for a knowing look. At least on someone’s face who wasn’t Scott. 

“Or you could just leave… that’s cool, too,” he called across the now-empty room. He tossed his gloves to the floor and turned around, walking directly into a wall. A growly, red-eyed wall that wrapped massive biceps around him. “Holy Sally Shipton,” Stiles shouted, flailing as much as the death grip would allow. “I almost had a freaking heart attack,” he complained, even as he shifted so he could grip Derek’s t-shirt and pull himself closer. 

Stiles felt the warm body pressing around him, he could smell the forest on Derek – like wood burning in the winter. His hands scrambled over heavy shoulders and tore at Derek’s back, catching in the material of his t-shirt. 

It was a few minutes before Derek loosened his hold enough for Stiles’s hands to roam, pressing under Derek’s t-shirt and tracing the dips and bumps of muscle that climbed up his back. “Off, off,” Stiles breathed and tugged at the fabric bunching around Derek’s shoulders. “I want to touch… please, Derek.” He couldn’t hear Derek’s heart the way he knew Derek could hear his, but he could feel it pressed against his chest, thumping just as quickly as his own as he pulled off the t-shirt. 

Stiles let his eyes roam over the empty locker room before focusing again on Derek. Stiles reached up to soften out the crease over the bridge of his nose, his fingers running along an eyebrow, a cheek, thumb dragging across his jaw through what stopped being stubble at least a day and a half ago. “Hi,” he murmured, off balance because Derek wasn’t even trying hide his smile. It was just there, messing with the ability of Stiles’s knees to keep him upright. “This is in no way a good idea.” Stiles pushed Derek into a row of lockers. “Really, really stupid thing to do,” he added, shucking his shoulder pads. “You’re actually the worst,” he muttered, tilting his head to catch Derek’s mouth and forcing himself further into Derek’s space. 

“Well, I guess I could have waited until you got home…” Derek mumbled into Stiles’s throat. He nipped under his jaw, ran his fingers through Stiles’s hair – just long enough now for him to tighten his grip and pull, exposing more neck, more skin still damp from practice. “…but I missed you.” His grip softened, and he just inhaled for a moment, breathing in grass and toast and the feeling of home he’d been thinking about all week. 

“Fuck,” Stiles whined and pulled from his grip to drop to his knees because he couldn’t not. He mouthed at Derek’s navel, his fingers moving through the dark line of hair that disappeared under his jeans. “I missed you,” he exhaled into Derek’s skin. 

“Jesus, Stiles.” Derek ran his fingers back across Stiles’s scalp, pushed his head down further so his pink mouth caught on black denim. The low moan that escaped Stiles filled Derek’s ears. He heard the rustle of Stiles’s lacrosse shorts as he shifted to undo Derek’s pants, but he didn’t hear the door, didn’t hear Danny until he was in the room with them. 

“Holy shit.” 

Stiles fell backwards onto his hands and whipped around to see who had spoken. Danny was frozen, his eyes flickering from Stiles to Derek, bewilderment warring with urge to laugh wildly and just walk away from the situation. Maybe keep walking until he got out of town – just back away from Beacon Hills altogether. He could get away from Jackson’s bullshit, get away from no one ever telling him anything, get away from his sudden desire to protect Stiles Stillinski of all people – make sure this terrifying man who looks like he’s been holed up in a cave half his life isn’t hurting him. 

“I think I’m, like, two-hundred percent done.”

“I think we broke Danny,” Stiles watched one of Danny’s eyes twitch, and Derek re-buttoned his pants. Derek furrowed his eyebrows at him, but Danny didn’t seem intimidated.

“Someone else is coming,” Derek side-eyed Stiles who leapt to his feet. 

“Now your ears decide to work.” 

Coach Finstock rounded on their row of lockers. “There, you are Danny. I-Hale? Derek Hale?” He squinted even though he was barely ten feet from Derek. 

“Uh,” said Derek.

“It’s good to see you getting back into lacrosse, Hale.” 

“Um,” said Derek. 

“Been training Stillinski, huh?”

“What,” said Derek.

“I was wondering why he stopped sucking,” Finstock was nodding sagely. 

“Oh my god,” Danny snorted. Stiles glared at him. 

“I mean, he always dropped the ball before. Every freaking play, you know what I mean? ‘Course you do. He’s become one of our best catchers!” 

Danny had to bite his hand to contain his laughter. Derek looked like he wanted to disappear, and Stiles was just watching him, gaping because he’d never thought about Derek at school, at Beacon Hills High School, playing lacrosse. And this wasn’t the time or the place, but this was one of those moments where Stiles remembered just how normal most of Derek’s life had been.

Stiles had recovered somewhat and was moving, having grabbed Derek’s shirt in the process. He pushed it into Derek’s hands and muttered, “meet me at home,” before flashing a wide grin at Finstock. “Gonna shower, Coach.” 

“Thanks for that vital information, kid. Really not sure how I could have lived without it.”

Derek shuffled away when Finstock shut himself in his office, and Danny chased after Stiles. He only remembered to put his shirt back on, still clutched in his hand, as he got into his car and noticed the stares he was getting.


	3. Chapter 3

“Come on,” Stiles whined, pulling ineffectually at the mass of muscle hovering over him. “Hurr—”

“Shush.” Derek nosed along Stiles’s neck, taking his time to catalogue the tendons shifting under Stiles’s jaw, nipping behind his ear and dragging sharp-tips of teeth lightly back down to his collarbone, memorizing the shudder under his hands as Stiles’s sides clenched at the hint of pain. 

He exhaled shakily; Derek’s stubble was scraping over his throat. His voice came out breathy and unsteady: “Now that you’re done smelling me, you massive creep, can we—”

Derek sucked wet, open kisses over the thin scratches his teeth had left, and Stiles gargled incoherently and again, unsuccessfully, tried to tug Derek closer. 

“No rush,” he murmured. They were in his bedroom, there was no sheriff, no fucking lacrosse team. They were closed in from the cold, the night outside hidden by a layer of condensation on the windows. It was just them and the warm, orange light of the bedside lamp Stiles had picked out. 

Stiles was burning-up underneath him, biting his lip because he was always so self-conscious of the noises he made; the noises that Derek made him make. But they got out anyway, whimpers that seemed to be crushed out of him, small sobs that would wrack through him when Derek rolled his hips, when he could feel Derek’s cock, heavy and hard against him. 

Derek shifted back so he was on his knees, legs bracketing Stiles’s thighs, and his hands found the waistband of his boxers. “I don’t think you need these.” His fingers dipped under the material, but he didn’t move to take them off. After a few moments, Stiles looked up and found Derek just staring, his green eyes hungry and open. 

He could feel heat spread through his cheeks but fought the urge to avert his eyes, to cover his face or tell Derek to stop looking at him like he was going to eat him whole. 

“Derek, please,” he reached and this time managed to pull Derek in closer; close enough for his fingers to drag across Derek’s parted lips; close enough for his thumb to test the sharpness of Derek’s teeth - not long enough to be wolf, but definitely not human. His other hand was gripping Derek’s neck. He pushed Derek’s mouth down to his right hip, just left of the bone. “Here.” 

“Stiles…” They’d talked about this - Stiles had brought it up, trying for casual and it coming out too honest. 

“I want you to. I know you want it. Please.” 

He mouthed at the spot Stiles had chosen, let his teeth scrape at the tight skin. “Stiles...”

Derek’s teeth lengthened, slid across his stomach, and then blinding pain as Derek bit down: not with intent to turn, and not deep enough to injure him, but hard enough to draw blood – hard enough that Stiles would carry a scar. Stiles heard himself shout out, couldn’t stop the whimpers when the pain faded and morphed into something warm and heady as Derek lapped at the wound. 

There was a bang that Stiles barely registered, but then Derek was growling, snarling, and there were heavy footsteps. His name shouted by more than one voice. 

 

Chris Argent hadn’t meant to follow Derek Hale home. He’d seen him at the drug store, had meant to let them go their separate ways, but when he walked past the Camaro, the sheriff’s son had been asleep in the passenger’s seat. Passed out, still in his Spock pajama pants like he’d been dragged out of bed. Mind racing with scenarios in which Stiles had been drugged and kidnapped, Chris was ready to pull out after the Camaro as soon as Derek stepped out of the store. 

Whatever was going on, Stiles was human. If he needed protection… 

 

The Hale House was looking less like a deathtrap. Parts were still burnt, skeletal, but someone had reinforced the doorway, and tools sat out by the side of the house. 

He was still pretty far back, parked on the edges of the property, spying with binoculars as Derek slipped out of the car and rounded on Stiles’s door, yanking it open and pulling. Stiles was either resisting or deadweight because Derek leaned into the car and came out with Stiles’s arms around his neck, his head lolling on Derek’s shoulder. 

Chris waited until they were inside before he grabbed the gun from under his seat and approached the house. He expected Derek to know he was there, so, at this point, he didn’t bother to hide. He couldn’t hear anything from inside the house so he waited just outside. Five, ten minutes until there was a shout. Stiles, upstairs, loud and pained. 

The door was unlocked, the stairs newly renovated. He pushed open Derek’s door. Stiles looked broken; Derek had bit him. 

Chris leveled his gun at Derek, hovering above the boy, his teeth long and red as he looked up and roared.

 

“Derek, what… why’d you,” Stiles slurred , rolling his head to see what Derek was looking at. He groaned at the sight of the gun. “Don’t-” But then Derek was shielding him from view and shifting and no. That was the opposite of a good idea. “Derek, he’ll shoot.” He pushed at Derek’s sweaty chest, but he wouldn’t budge. “Mr. Argent—” 

“Get up, Hale. Now.”

Derek growled, and there was a shot. Dead weight slumped back, crushing Stiles until Chris pulled him off, dragging him to the floor. 

Stiles rolled out of bed, limping with the pain now very present against his hip. “You fucking- I can’t even- motherfuck!” He knelt beside Derek. 

“Stiles, get away from-”

“Oh, shut up! Derek. Derek, can you hear me?” There was black spreading across his ribs. Stiles looked from his ashen face to Chris Argent’s blank one. “Give me a bullet… and, and a knife.”

“What?”

“He wasn’t attacking me!” Stiles could hear himself shouting. Could see that Chris still didn’t get it. “Mr. Argent, help!” 

“He bit you. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m-I’m bleeding? Derek is dying. Now is now the time for kink-shaming! Help him or I’m going to rip your fucking throat out-”

Derek choked out something that sounded like a laugh. 

“You-” 

“Yes! But we can talk about that later. Or, never, actually. We don’t ever need to talk about that. Just-”

“Okay, okay, right.” Chris dropped down beside Stiles and pulled out a knife and lighter, set them down and found another bullet. While he worked he could see Stiles tracing the path of wolfs-bane moving through Derek’s blood. 

“You idiot. If you had listened to me. And how did you not hear him coming into your fucking house?”

Derek’s eyes, already struggling to stay open, swept down to stare at the mark he’d made. The bite was angry and dark, still bleeding at the edges. “Oh.” Stiles touched it, flinching slightly against the jolt of pain and something else, something that he couldn’t name yet made Derek groan and Chris look away. “So this means I’m yours, now, right? You can’t get rid of me? You’re—”

“All yours,” he muttered, his eyes closing. 

Chris cupped the ashes in his hand and handed it to Stiles. “Sorry to ruin the moment.”

Stiles rubbed the ash into Derek’s wound, and he snarled and writhed as the black receded through his veins. 

 

“Well this has been fun.” They were in the living room, Stiles holding the door open and Derek standing too-close behind him, glaring at Chris Argent. 

“My mistake.” Chris stood in the doorway and watched Stiles appraisingly, smiling paternally. “Good-night Mr. Stillinski, I hope that bite doesn’t get infected.” Stiles scowled and slammed the door. 

“This was not how I imagined our night go—”

Derek cut him off, his mouth on Stiles’s, his body pressing Stiles against the door. “Better?” he mumbled into Stiles’s throat.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm iwantanalien on tumblr :)


End file.
